Page 82 of Cara
“What do you feel?” he asks softly.
Words fail to describe it. I wish I could find a way.
This man is the embodiment of my sensuality, the one who taught me to love my body. I’d already become a woman before I was his wife, but it was his touch alone that made me embrace the change.
I know there will never be a moment when I don’t desire him, and yet there’s a pit hollowing my stomach. My body doesn’t know how to move forward, fearing what I might see.
For years, my nightmares have left scars of hatred.
Xavier speaks softly, choosing another route to my heart. “Can I touch you?”
As I nod, he shifts us to face each other. I hope he can’t sense my racing heart. His eyes beseech mine, guarded as he holds my chin. “Tell me to stop if it becomes too much.”
He doesn’t kiss me right away.
Instead, his lips softly skim the base of my throat, lingering until my tensed muscles relax. Then, he shifts them, trailing over my throat to the tender root of my ear. His teeth lightly graze that delicate spot. My hands are balled against my chest, my eyes squeezed shut, focusing on the path of his mouth.
He glides his tongue along the delicate curve of my lips, gently parting them, gently urging me to accept him.
As a wave of warmth courses through me—for the first time in a long time—my jaw loosens, breathing him in.
And in response, his tongue fills my mouth, his kiss deepening as he inhales sharply, cradling my face with both hands.
At times, he’s starved. Overwhelming, flattening my lips as he licks into my mouth with desperate hunger.
He catches himself—often. I never wish to slow down or stop him, finding immense comfort in the familiarity.
Whenever I think of that bed in Madrid, the one side that was never turned, a pang of loneliness moves through me, and I find myself clinging to him, clawing at him just as desperately.
It gives him freedom, a chance for his hands to roam down my side, over my hips, and back up. Faster than I expected, clothing becomes an unwelcome barrier. He gauges my mind space before sliding his hands underneath my top, pulling it up over my head, unclipping my bra.
“I need to see you,” he says, sliding the thin straps from my shoulders. He replaces my fumbling fingers undoing my jeans with his, tugging them from my hips. My chest heaves when his fingers hook around my underwear. He hesitates, hearing my altered breathing. “Soph.”
“Don’t,” I pant. “Don’t stop.”
My eyes fix on the ceiling fan as he sheds my last article of clothing until I’m bared. The sun hasn’t fully risen, but muted light touches every surface in the room, including us.
When he puts his hands on me, I'm gulping through the rapid beating in my chest.
His hands scale the path of my hips to my waist, and when his mouth envelops my nipple, I balk, catching him off guard. He almost stops, but my hands prevent him from going far.
His touch is gentle, like ripples on a stream. Each caress of his tongue, every breath against my skin possesses power—power he intends to heal me with. It’s felt in every trace, every shiver, every groan. He’s here, but he won’t focus on himself.
He never guides me to touch him despite how hard he’s become. He doesn’t push to undress himself or tell me how badly he needs more, although I know he does.
His true intention becomes crystal clear when he lifts my thigh, positioning my leg over his hip until we’re flush against each other.
Emeralds bore into me as his hand disappears between us,his fingertips lightly grazing the inside of my thigh, drifting up to...
One. Touch.
That’s all it takes to ruin me. This. Us.
Everything blurs in an instant, but I feel myself recoil, feel as I go unresponsive. Most of all, I feel him wince at the jarring difference in a matter of seconds. I’m grateful he can’t see what I see, feel what I feel when my eyes squeeze shut.
Hands, so many of them, pulling my thighs apart.
Saliva coating my throat.
